The Fatal Falsehood Part 15

_Riv._ In the tangled maze Orlando miss'd the path he was to take, And pa.s.s'd through that where Bertrand lay conceal'd To watch th' event: Orlando thought 'twas me, And that I play'd him false: the walk was dark.

In Bertrand's b.l.o.o.d.y hand I found this dagger, With which he meant to take my life; but how Were you alarm'd?

_Guild._ One of Orlando's men, Whom wealth could never bribe to join in murder----

_Or._ Murder! I bribe to murder?

_Riv._ No; 'twas Bertrand Brib'd them to that curs'd deed: he lov'd my sister.

_Or._ Exquisite villain!

_Guild._ Fly to Emmelina, If any spark of reason yet remain, Tell her the joyful news.--Alas, she's here!

Wildly she flies!--Ah, my distracted child!

_Enter_ EMMELINA _distracted_.

_Em._ Off, off! I will have way! ye shall not hold me: I come to seek my Lord: is he not here?

Tell me, ye virgins, have ye seen my love, Or know you where his flocks repose at noon?

My love is comely--sure you must have seen him; 'Tis the great promiser! who vows and swears; The perjur'd youth! who deals in oaths and breaks them.

In truth he might deceive a wiser maid.

I lov'd him once; he then was innocent: He was no murderer then, indeed he was not; He had not kill'd my brother.

_Riv._ Nor has now; Thy brother lives.

_Em._ I know it--yes, he lives Among the cherubim. Murd'rers too will live: But where? I'll tell you where--down, down, down, down.

How deep it is! 'tis fathomless--'tis dark!

No--there's a pale blue flame--ah, poor Orlando!

_Guild._ My heart will burst.

_Or._ Pierce mine, and that will ease it.

_Em._ (_comes up to her father._) I knew a maid who lov'd--but she was mad-- Fond, foolish girl! Thank heav'n, I am not mad; Yet the afflicting angel has been with me; But do not tell my father, he would grieve; Sweet, good old man--perhaps he'd weep to hear it: I never saw my father weep but once; I'll tell you when it was--I did not weep; 'Twas when--but soft, my brother must not know it, 'Twas when his poor fond daughter was refus'd.

_Guild._ Who can bear this?

_Or._ I will not live to bear it.

_Em._ (_comes up to_ ORLANDO.) Take comfort, thou poor wretch! I'll not appear Against thee, nor shall Rivers; but blood must, Blood will appear; there's no concealing blood.

What's that? my brother's ghost--it vanishes: [_Catches hold of_ RIVERS.

Stay, take me with thee, take me to the skies; I have thee fast: thou shalt not go without me.

But hold--may we not take the murd'rer with us?

That look says--No. Why then I'll not go with thee.

Yet hold me fast--'tis dark--I'm lost--I'm gone. [_Dies._

_Or._ One crime makes many needful: this day's sin Blots out a life of virtue. Good old man!

My bosom bleeds for thee; thy child is dead, And I the cause. 'Tis but a poor atonement; But I can make no other. [_Stabs himself._

_Riv._ What hast thou done?

_Or._ Fill'd up the measure of my sins. Oh, mercy!

Eternal goodness, pardon this last guilt!

Rivers, thy hand!--farewell! forgive me, Heaven!

Yet is it not an act which bars forgiveness, And shuts the door of grace for ever!--Oh! [_Dies._ [_The curtain fails to soft music._

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES.

Unhand me, gentlemen; by Heaven, I say, I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way.

[_Behind the scenes._ Forth let me come--A Poetaster true, As lean as Envy, and as baneful too; On the dull audience let me vent my rage, Or drive these female scribblers from the stage.

For scene or History, we've none but these, The law of Liberty and Wit they seize; In Tragic--Comic--Pastoral--they dare to please.

Each puny Bard must surely burst with spite, To find that women with such fame can write: But, oh, your partial favour is the cause, Which feeds their follies with such full applause.

Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame, And ridicule each fair pretender's aim; Where the dull duties of domestic life, Wage with the Muse's toils eternal strife.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!

In studious dishabille behold her sit, A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her G.o.ds, her cook, her milliner and muse, Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies, A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise; Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a vary'd ma.s.s, Oppress the toilet, and obscure the gla.s.s; Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid, And there, a mantua-maker's bill unpaid; Here, new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There, dormant patterns pine for future gauze; A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare: A scene she now projects, and now a dish, Here's act the first--and here--remove with fish.

Now while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That, soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and thread, and b.a.l.l.s, and thimbles mix.

Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song, For years esteem'd all household studies wrong; When, dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin, Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in.

The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower, And matron Juno claims despotic power; Soon Gothic hags the cla.s.sic pile o'erturn, A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn; Nor books, nor implements escape their rage, They spike the ink-stand, and they rend the page; Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake, Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake, And Aristotle's only sav'd--to wrap plum-cake.

Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene?

And dare--but hold--I must repress my spleen; I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause, While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her cause; Well pleas'd to aid--since o'er his sacred bier A female hand did ample trophies rear, And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd there.